Moth to the Flame (17 page)

They entered the lock at Upper Heyford a quarter of an hour later, Davina quickly mastering the use of the lock key, and just past a pretty, red-brick hump-backed canal bridge he moored the boat to the side. It being March, not many people were indulging in a boating holiday, and they had the canal to themselves. A big bush of pussy-willow, with its fat, lemon, pollen-saturated flowers, showered them with a gentle golden mist as the slight breeze rustled through it.

Davina's dress looked cool, but it was made of warm material, and a moment later Gareth hoisted the hamper on to the top of the canal barge and sprawled out next to her.

He opened the basket and peered inside.

‘Don't tell me,' she sighed, still with her
head
tilted up towards the warm sun. ‘Smoked salmon, oysters, and Italian bread.'

‘Close,' Gareth murmured. ‘Pork pie, beer, and cheese that's strong enough to get up and walk off by itself.'

She laughed, and watched him bring out exactly that.

The beer came from a local brewery in Chipping Norton, and she drank it straight from the bottle. He reached for a taste, but she swung the bottle out of his reach. ‘If you're a good boy I'll let you kiss me.'

‘Generous to a fault, aren't you?' Gareth mused, then sat up. ‘Look!' he pointed to a flash of turquoise and orange flitting past them. ‘A real kingfisher.'

Davina too shot up, just in time to see the streak of blue and gold dash around the bend in the canal and disappear. When she turned back, Gareth was swallowing the beer. She cast doubts on his ancestry in very modern language, then helped herself to some fruit.

When the hamper was empty at last, and Gareth had carefully lowered it back on to the back deck of the boat, she slowly lay back against the roof, the painted surface warm to her spine.

She saw the shadow that could only be Gareth's loom against her closed lids, blocking out the light from the sun. For a while she let the play of colours dance across her lids. Orange. Blazing green. Deep blue. Then she
opened
her eyes.

Stormy eyes looked back.

‘I suppose you want me now?' she said softly.

Gareth smiled. Reached out a finger to trace the line of her jaw. ‘I always want you,' he admitted softly. ‘From the first moment I saw you. Now. And I'll still be wanting you when my last moment comes.'

She sighed softly. ‘Gareth.'

‘What?'

She thought of David. She thought of herself. She thought of him. She thought . . . I'm in trouble.

‘Nothing,' she murmured. ‘Come here.'

She pulled him down on top of her, taking his hand and guiding it to her left breast. She sighed softly as his fingers curled around the curve of her flesh there, and moaned sensuously, softly, as his thumb brushed hard against her burgeoning nipple. It was a slow, lazy, flowing kind of love that they made that afternoon. He didn't remove her flowing white dress, just pulled the hem up to her waist. All traces of the Australian tan she'd had had quickly fled. She looked, he thought drowsily, breathlessly, like a woman made of milk and honey. And he laughed at himself, because he wasn't fooled by the disguise.

He buried himself in her, and caught fire, losing himself in the ecstasy of the moment. Once, he called out her name, and startled a
pair
of moorhens who were busy building a nest in a patch of reeds on the neighbouring river bank. Afterwards, Davina lay staring up at the sky. His head was pillowed against her breast, and she was absently stroking the damp, dark hair back from his face. She could feel the contours of the bones of his skull, cheek and jaw under her fingers. Could feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat slowing to normal against her own, racing heart. Could feel the coolness of the breeze against her bare legs.

She sighed deeply and closed her eyes. And finally admitted to herself that she was in love with the man. Realised that this was, perhaps, the first time that she had ever been in love with anyone. Because, as she now recognised, in Gareth Lacey she'd at last found her soulmate . . .

‘Oh hell,' Davina groaned.

Gareth stirred, but didn't lift his head. He didn't want to ask her what was hell. He was frightened she might tell him.

*          *          *

That night, Davina skulked in the shadows in the entrance hall in Wolsey, waiting for him to leave Walton for Hall.

She'd changed into black silk trousers and a mandarin-style black shirt, and the moment he was gone she slipped across the lawn and
pushed
open the door to Walton. Everything was quiet, and remained so as she made her way to his Rooms. His door was unlocked, and her lips twisted. Of course. Nobody locked their doors in St Bede's. The big bad world outside couldn't reach you in here, could it? Except, of course, that it could, she thought, viciously sad, as she walked across the worn carpet to his desk. She found the key again, unlocked the bottom drawer and drew out the folder marked ‘Exam Papers'. She saw a dark blue spot appear on the pale blue folder, and for a moment stared at it stupidly. Then another spot appeared, and she suddenly realised that she was crying. The absorbent paper was soaking up her salty tears, expanding them slowly in an ever-increasing circle.

She angrily brushed the tears away, got up, and walked on leaden legs to the door, her prize clutched in her hand. No one saw her enter the library, or go into the small photo copying room off the main loggia.

‘See Gareth,' she murmured, as she carefully photocopied the exam papers for King Canute College's summer exam finals. ‘Fate just isn't on your side.' She watched, half-hypnotised, as the bar of white light moved across the papers, making copies of the multiple-choice questions. Within just a few short minutes, she'd returned the papers to his room and was on her way back to Hall, the
photocopies
inside her bag.

She was acutely aware of the war being waged within her—the battle-lines so clearly drawn. Her heart, which belonged to Gareth, had surprising strength. Her head, which belonged to David and the promise given to him on the day of his funeral, was cold and clear. And her soul, which would always be her own, but was now inexorably linked to Gareth's, was ominously silent.

Which one was going to win?

As she entered Hall, and made her way to High Table where Gareth waited for her, she realised that she had no idea.

And it scared her.

For the first time in her life, something scared her.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Alicia watched the familiar scenery of Warwickshire flash past the car window and glanced curiously across at her companion. Rupert was a very attractive man. Most women must find his combination of blond good looks, money and title, an irresistible combination. And she wondered, idly, why it did so little for her. The answer came to her almost immediately she asked the question of herself: Jared, of course.

She
gave a mental shrug, telling herself not to get maudlin. Or nervous. She was only going to a weekend House Party and Ball, after all, and was hardly a novice at such social events.

‘Tired?' Rupert asked, taking his hand off the steering wheel long enough to give her fingers a tender squeeze.

Alicia smiled and shook her head. ‘Just a bit weary, that's all. I haven't been sleeping well. The excitement of the play, I expect,' she lied glibly. For it wasn't the final, hectic preparations of the play that were wearing her out.

It was Jared. Ever since that party in the SCR she'd known something had gone horribly wrong. The teasing was gone. The togetherness was missing. The feeling of easy fondness overlaid by something deeper, seemed to have disintegrated. He never mentioned his plans for the future. Never asked her out. Never escorted her over to Hall.

And, try as she might to avoid thinking about it, she knew there could only be one explanation for all that. Neville hadn't been lying about the money. He really had paid him off.

Oh hell. She was going to cry! She looked hastily out of the window of the luxurious Rover and blinked back the hot, angry, disappointed tears that threatened to flood her lovely blue eyes. She took a deep breath. Pull
yourself
together girl, damn it. You're no longer a child, who can cry like a baby when things don't go your way.

Rupert glanced across at her, studying her peach-perfect profile. ‘Bored?' he murmured. ‘I hate the tedious business of travelling too. But we'll be there soon, and believe me, there's nothing boring about Warrington.'

Alicia flashed him a quick smile. ‘I'm sure there isn't,' she assured him, hearing plainly the deep pride in his voice. ‘It was really nice of you to ask me, Rupert,' she said softly. After all, it wouldn't be fair to take out her own misery on Rupert. She turned back to the window, missing the look of joy and pride which flared across Rupert's face.

Alicia knew she had to face facts. She wasn't the first woman to fall in love with the wrong man. Except Jared wasn't the wrong man, a stubborn voice suddenly piped up, so firmly that it made her jump. OK, so Jared was the right man for her. But where did that leave her? Oh, she could easily forgive him for taking money from her brother. What did mere money matter to her? But could she ever forgive him for leaving her to another man? Even one as harmless as Rupert?

That was harder. Much harder.

When she got back to Oxford she'd just have to have it all out with him. Her heart leapt. Oh, very brave, Alicia, she thought mockingly. But what if he says he'd rather have
the
money than you. What will you do then?

‘Here we are,' Rupert said, and she realised that they'd left the main roads some time before, and now were just turning off a leafy lane on to a private road.

‘Look through the trees there . . .' Rupert slowed the car to point, and, sure enough, through the frothing greenness, Alicia caught a glimpse of golden turrets. ‘Warrington,' Rupert breathed, with utter and evident satisfaction, as they turned a bend in the road, and suddenly there was the house.

And it was some house. Built in the early 1700s, it had the classic elegance of the period. ‘It's . . . magnificent!' Alicia breathed, overwhelmed, as anyone would be, by one of the more beautiful stately homes of England.

‘Isn't it,' Rupert breathed. ‘And it's mine. Or rather, it's my father's, at the moment. But it will be mine.'

When the bastard was dead.

‘You're the oldest son?' she asked, realising, perhaps for the first time, the true lofty status of the man sitting next to her.

‘The only son,' Rupert corrected her quickly. ‘So all the land comes with the entailment too.' But not necessarily the family money, he thought grimly. This petty threat of his father's to leave his fortune to Rupert's sister was something that must never be allowed to happen. ‘So,' he took a deep breath as he looked across at Alicia. ‘What do you
think?
Could you see yourself living here?' he asked, in utter seriousness.

Alicia smiled. ‘Oh yes! Dressed in a crinoline and carrying a lace parasol!'

Rupert didn't hear the lightness of her tone. Was deaf to the fact that she wasn't serious. Instead, he thought how wonderful she really would look in a crinoline. With her mass of raven hair, and those huge blue eyes, she would be perfect. Just like one of those portraits of his ancestors, which lined the Great Hall. A famous beauty of her day.

Rupert came round and opened the door for her, his eyes running over her in approval. She was dressed in a designer suit and a matching blue blouse. The colour did wonders for her hair, which was swept back in a very elegant French pleat, and made her eyes simply . . . incredible. A floaty silvery-blue scarf, of the very finest, sheerest silk, billowed around her neck in the merest breeze, and this vision was the first thing Rupert's father saw as he walked down the fan-shaped front steps, when he came to greet them.

Rupert, who'd seen him open the door and step out, felt his heart thump. It couldn't have been better.

‘So, you've arrived at last,' a gruff voice spoke from just behind her. ‘I thought you'd got . . . lost.'

The Earl of Warrington's eyes widened as Alicia spun around, her startled blue eyes wide
with
surprise. ‘Father,' Rupert said, his voice cold.

The Earl of Warrington didn't appear to hear his son's greeting. In fact, he was still staring at Alicia and she felt herself blushing.

The Earl smiled, suddenly. It had been some time since he'd seen a lady blush, and once again, Rupert felt himself swell with pride. He, who knew his father so well, knew that Alicia was having just the effect on him that he'd been hoping she would. Even that blush was tailor-made to charm the old man.

‘Father, this is Alicia Norman,' he introduced them briefly. ‘Alicia, this is my father, the Earl of Warrington.'

Alicia fought back the absurd desire to curtsy. Instead she stepped forward and held out one long, white, sensitive hand.

‘I'm simply charmed,' the Earl murmured. ‘Norman? Are you, by any chance, related to our literary-minded neighbours?'

Alicia smiled. ‘Yes. My father owns . . .'

‘I read it every week,' the Earl interrupted. ‘Well, this is an unexpected bonus,' he said, giving his son a long, level look. The boy, at last, had done something right. His past dates for the Ball had been something of a disaster.

He turned and walked her towards the house. Alicia, feeling slightly sorry for Rupert, turned and glanced over her shoulder at him. But far from looking put out at having his guest so monopolised, he was beaming with
obvious
pleasure.

Alicia felt her heart constrict in fear and pity. Pity, because pleasing his austere and, she instinctively felt, largely unloving father, meant so much to him. And fear, because she finally realised how much Rupert was relying on her to play the role of ‘acceptable girlfriend'. She felt a frisson of foreboding snake down her spine as she stepped into the awe-inspiring hall.